Rory Gallagher

Jean-Nöel Coghe was a correspondent for the magazine Disco Review in the middle of the 1960s before joining our Rock ‘n’ Folk team at the end of 1967. Since then, he has contributed to the first editions of Best and Extra before working for RTBF. Today, this great rock journalist officiates at RTL Lille and is putting the final touch to his book of memories (From Jimi to Rory – The Times Are Gone) where he recounts his meetings and friendship with some of the most influential musicians in rock music. Exclusively for the readers of Rock Style, Jean-Nöel Coghe shares an advanced extract of his book. Great friend of Rory Gallagher since 1974, he dedicates the last chapter of his book to him. With emotion and modesty, he remembers this six-chord magician who passed away far too soon.

“…the end of October 1994, Rory is in Lille. Because I am working, I cannot be at the concert. I am coming for the last three songs. Albert Warrin is with me. Rory is delivering a killer punch. His jaws clenched, he sends out his notes in bursts, tortured, filled with passion. His long hair is dripping. He is three metres from me. I’m at his side, but he can’t see me. Yet I feel carried towards him; it seems like I am as one with him. I notice that whatever he is playing at that moment completely matches what I had expected. Then it is over. I will never see him on stage again.

We meet backstage. He sees me and takes me into his arms and hugs me. For a long time. He has never done that before. He offers me a drink. Warrin is there. With his wife, Simone. And Aurora, their daughter, whom Rory knew almost when she was a baby in Dourges. We look at photos from Ghent. Roland (1) is not with us. He is stuck in Brussels. We talk about Sud, I show him photos of my house which I tell him is open to him whenever he wants. In Ardèche, Albert has set up a hotel residence. With Donal (2), we discuss the possibility of the group going over there to record in the summer of 95. “And we’ll stay with you, Jean-Noël!” they say.

We’re going to have dinner in town. I’m next to Rory and Mark whom I don’t know very well. We have met before, but we never properly talked to each other before until that evening. He is endearing. When Rory stopped performing on stage in 91 [sic], Mark reformed his group Nine Below Zero, with the guitarist Dennis Greaves. Gerry McAvoy and Brendan O’Neill followed him. Then, when Rory went back on the road, Gerry and Brendan remained with Nine Below Zero. But Mark came back. He is close to Rory. Very close. I can tell. Rory is “in good shape.” He barely eats and does not drink much. I have never seen him drunk. At the end of the meal, at 3 a.m., Rory leaves for the hotel on the Grand’Place. He says, “Come and pick me up tomorrow at noon. Let’s eat together.”

“No, you’re leaving in the afternoon to go to London. Sleep…”

He insists.

“I’ll expect you around half past twelve”.

At the agreed time, I am in the Bellevue. The reception phone him. He comes down immediately. He has his bag, his things. He leads me to La Chicorée. We bump into Mark and another guy. Rory orders a steak, but he doesn’t touch it, so to speak. He drinks a beer. We talk about everything and nothing. It’s a bit like the first time we went out on Rue des Butchers in Brussels more than 20 years ago. The restaurant manager wants to be photographed with Rory. I take a picture of them and she offers us champagne. We don’t touch it, but we pretend. It’s nearly 3pm now. Donal sends for us. Rory insists on paying. Then we go back to the hotel. Everything is already in the Safrane; the engine is running. They are just waiting for him. We shake hands for a long time. He climbs into the car. Donal gives me one final wave. The cars start. I stand alone on the pavement.

Rory returns to Belgium at the end of December. Roland is with him. This time it’s me who isn’t there. They announce Rory for the Bourges Festival. It delights me. I hope he will impress them. But when I read the reviews in Le Soir, there’s not a word about Rory. Mao teaches me that he is not well. In fact, he is already hospitalised. but no one knows.

—–

That evening, on my way home, my daughter Jennifer says, “Your friend Roland called. He’s going to call  back after 8 p.m.

I laugh.

“He’ll call me back next year. The call today is the one he was supposed to give me six months ago.”

While arranging papers, I come across an old envelope filled with negatives. They are from the time I shot a TV programme with Rory in 1975. It’s funny. I forget they even existed. Then shortly after 8 p.m., the telephone rings. Martine picks up. I see from her face that something has happened.

“It’s Roland.”

Roland, on the other end of the phone, is blustering. He’s trying to act like he always does. But then he tells me…

“So, mate, I thought they were playing a joke on us, but he’s gone… I mean, he died. This afternoon at the hospital in London. Donal just told me now and I called you…”

It’s nearly 10 p.m. This information burns me, hurts me. I want to pass it on, but not anyhow. I pick up my telephone and I call RTL. Not the editorial staff, but Fabrice Lundy, the journalist who does the 10.15pm slot. I talk to Francis Zégut who I have never met. But he is okay about announcing the news, which touches, overwhelms the humble, those who sincerely love and deeply respect Rory Gallagher. Zegut calls me later in the evening. To get more details. I feel very affected. I’m lying down and I think he senses that I am crying. AFP announces Rory’s death the next day at noon.

 —–

“You have to go,” Martine told me. I sent a fax to Donal expressing my condolences. I know from Pascal Bernardin who is already there that the funeral is on Monday in Cork, Ireland. Martine makes three reservations. One for me, one for Roland and one for knows who else. The next day, Catherine calls me. Her decision is immediate. “If you go, I’m coming.” It is the evening of the second round of municipal elections. I am working until midnight, but I am already elsewhere.

 —–

The Paris-Cork flight stops in Dublin. A guy comes up and sits near us. Catherine tells me that “he’s going to Rory’s funeral.” How do you know ? “He’s a folk singer. He stayed with Roland.” Indeed, we find him in the Church. Among 4,000 people. It’s mild, but it’s grey and it’s raining. Like the weather, Cork is in mourning. It is burying one of its children. In this vast church which is filled to the brim, there is a coffin covered with flowers. Usually, Rory enters the stage when the spectators are seated. This time, it is he who is there and waiting for them. In the first rows, behind us, there is the family. His mother, very dignified, Donal, Cecilia his wife and their four children. Then Tom, Gerry, all his relatives. The crowd is there. Young and old. An old lady holds a flower in her hand, and her lips move. She prays. There are everyday people from the street and a few celebrities, who fade into anonymity. Gary Moore, The Dubliners, Adam Clayton and U2’s The Edge… and more.

Then from up there, the sound of a violin starts up. I recognise the tune. I knew it would be performed first. ‘Poets and Storytellers’, which featured on an album by Joe O’Donnell Gael’s Vision. It was an album produced by Donal and Rory plays the solo in this superb piece. Tom, for the last time no doubt, holds Rory’s old Fender. He places it in front of the coffin. The ceremony is moving, full of restraint. Rory’s niece and nephews do readings, as well as his other relatives. Suddenly, an air of blues sounds: electric piano and harmonica. I move forward. Lou Martin and Mark Feltham are paying a final tribute to Rory. I take out my Nagra, which I took on the first tour with him. Tom removes the Fender. Then Donal, Ronnie Drew from the Dubliners and two other friends lift the coffin and leave the church. On each side of the aisle, people are crying. The coffin is placed in the hearse. Donal sees me and comes to hug me. They are leaving for the cemetery. A guy takes us with him in his car. The cemetery is several kilometres away, outside the city, surrounded by green hills. On the pavements, hundreds of people are gathered to pay homage to Rory. Bikers direct the traffic. Two kilometres from the cemetery, the cars come to a standstill. We have to walk. There are too many of us. A procession, a silent cohort then embarks on this path and invades the cemetery. At least two thousand people walk like this. It is raining gently. The wind makes the trees that surround the place shiver where Rory rests forever. A strange, large white bird flies overhead.

Prayers rise to the sky and then a harmonica covers everything. It’s Mark. He’s in front of the grave with the family. A green carpet hides the pit where Rory was lowered. Mark plays until his lungs burst. I think he is crying as he plays too. Gradually, the family withdraws, and everyone leaves. Four or five of us stay in front of his grave. We remove the board covered with this green carpet, and one of the guys hands me a shovel and says “if you want.”

So, I throw a shovel of earth, where Mark threw his harmonica earlier. A young woman does not move. She is all in black. She has long hair that falls over her shoulders. She is crying softly. She is broken with grief. She comes from Germany. Catherine, Leslie and I are leaving. I take one last look at the line of graves. Over there is Rory. Behind the driveway, there is an electric pole, and I point it out to Catherine, “Hey, he can plug in his guitar there.” The biker also looks concerned.

Only the three of us are left at the entrance to the cemetery. He calls for a taxi. The taxi takes us to the hotel. The driver is also upset. Two days before the funeral, locals paid their last respects to Rory. An incessant procession in the church where the coffin was on show. At Jury’s Hotel, where we stayed, the reception is held. We didn’t know, and no one around knew we were coming. On our return to the hotel, Tom tells us that we are expected in one of the lounges. The family, the very close ones, are there for a snack. Two guys at the entrance screen people. “No devices, please”… we wave at them, I pass with my Nagra on my shoulder. Donal explains to us: “It’s a relief. Rory underwent a liver transplant on March 25. Everything went well, then there was a rejection, complications. He suffered a lot.”

“In his final days,” says Donal, “I asked Mark to come to the hospital with his harmonica. Mark played for Rory. And the monitors noted a reaction. Rory could hear the music, and it helped him improve. The doctors were flabbergasted. The next day, his face was more calm and rested. He looked better. But Rory couldn’t hold out. He left, peacefully, with “his” music in his heart and in his head.”

And the music took over. In this hotel room, there is a piano. And Lou Martin tinkles on it. Then the guitars appear. Rory’s friends take turns singing for him. Jimmy McCarty and others I don’t know. All are moved, on the verge of tears. We are in Ireland… Gerry on the guitar, Lou on the piano, McCarty and Feltham on the harmonica, and others still… One song follows another. Classics, or others. Rory’s songs – ‘Calling Card’ – or Dylan’s… Leslie is with Eoin. He’s Rory’s nephew. They become friends. They stay together. Now they write to each other. . ‘Runaway’ and ‘Be Bop A Lula’. They play, they sing. I only know how to record. This ‘Be Bop A Lula’ gives me a strange feeling. Because it all started with this song by Gene Vincent. The circle is complete. Nothing will ever be the same again. So long. Gone with rock, gone with time.”

Jean-Noël Coghe – 1995

(1) Roland: Roland Vancampenhout of the Blues Workshop played on Rory’s first tour and became his friend.

(2) Donal is Rory Gallagher’s younger brother, as well as his manager.